


Encounter

by korik



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: Canon Rewrite, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Manga Rewrite, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:53:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korik/pseuds/korik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something I scrounged up during work, I’m still working on it. Started for my buddy, imjz, a sort of rewrite of the manga introduction Vaan gets to have with Vayne, bigger emphasis on Vayne and Gabranth, shippy shit all around 'cuz OTP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Encounter

The scene - a world slowly twisting, coiling in on itself as though it were a tornado, mindless, brute force. The world behind it uprooted and torn, houses and lives askew, minds touched and sense of comprehension, of placement, raped, eyes blinded by the sickly sweet promises of hate, of baser, more foolish things.

And yet, it was so hard to see from beneath the crashing waves of oppression, from minds so threaded with lies, the babe sick from poisoned milk gained at his mother’s rotting breast. And yet still he clung, vicious little curled hands, mere bone and claws, to the peeling flesh, his mother laughing. Mocking. Feasting upon the dead of those that came before the thing at her side, riding the red sea of the dead with an ecstatic cry.

The two beneath this toxic affair stood, unperturbed by the picture so plain in their eyes, having poured the acid of life from them to strike out for a better meat, no mother to claim them. Only each other.

The noble man’s eyes were keen, his posture upright, hands neatly twisted behind his back, his body clad in silvers, greens, an object of war, but discernibly alive thanks to the slow inhale, exhale - the flicker of a pulse underneath his olive toned skin at the neck where perhaps it was a hair too tight about the cravat and soldier decoration that protected his lean throat.

His…companion, if you could name a frozen statue so, was very much the same, both mirrors of the other, equal in posture though the glistening silver edged armor belied a wider stance, alert to the sounds that could hide beneath the firecracker scream of the lights that exploded in the dark sky. Both equals, sharing, testing, preying on the same space, that ached to be between them. The dark shadows of the eyeholes only just betrayed, when glanced at carefully, a pair of honey tinged blue eyes, lightening exploding through a summer’s humid sky.

The long, dark hair shifted as the soft, silvery tones of a voice entranced by ages far older expelled out an ironic sound of enjoyment, or the twisted sense of being caught inbetween a rock and a hard place. “You should not have come."

The hollow voice was immediate, rapt and sharp, cradling the silver tongue with leather and steel. “I serve better where I am, my lord."

"In your state - "

"I am well aware as to my state, my lord; indeed, it is quite…unavoidable."

The hard blues cut a unfavorable glance at the impassive plate-clad being, wishing for a moment as though to cut through it, disassemble that which had been brought to pass. His words brushed against the undeniable and trailed away. “I am tired of Rabanastre; the Senate only keeps me here because they are afraid." His tongue hesitates in the space between his teeth. “Afraid of us."

The force creaks, a pleased, softening laugh emerging from the harsh, curled lines of honor and duty. “As they should, my lord."

The noble head bows, his lips thinly smiling, expressing…something, his brow knit with worry, distaste - some incapacitating connection that threatened to swallow up his reserves. “It is as it should be - they will lack the ability get very far."

The statue remained immobile, the horned helm turning a mere hair to consume the information that fed it.

"They’ve a traitor in their midst." The dark lashes cut out the spark of light - a celebratory gold and red splattering against the heavens.

All these things the other knew, the repetition of information as important as a melodic chorus that tied the song to its origin.

"With the information we have and will continue to garner for the time being, we will have up to date information regarding strategy, tactics -" his red mouth twitches - “all of it. Tonight is critical; the intention is to snuff out an impudent candlewick. To discover the real prize."

The well tuned machine has a pleasant track to follow, the process much easier to follow than the set of unknowns that had been laid out perhaps a mere few months prior.

The blackened titan, whom the gods fear for its power over Chaos, made a noise, curious, prying, clicking into a position well danced, the grooves in the floor speaking of ages of the ritual. A half pace here, the weight of a thought, a lost moment of anger buried into the ancient rock and stone. Love. Dream. Tactic. Resistance. They are almost curling waves, melding away the harder edges of the stone as the persistence of lesser beings scored away the mountains. "We shall begin the search as the situation is dealt with, then."

The others head nods, finely gloved fingers on one regal hand touching to his own jaw and lip. “Make it so. There is little assurance I can offer you, much to my personal regret, but it should mark itself an artifact of Raithwall’s legacy, tied securely to the Royal family I would venture." The crinkle above his brows return, eyes closing as the white leather traces an absentminded pattern into frustration.

The emerald scales glimmer across his hide as his weight adjusts in the dust and age, silver tongue decaying into a moment of uncertainty, a soft murmur of concern towards the second party. “I feel as if the remnants of my speech were faulty, unable to sway that which was most necessary today…"

The other seemed impenetrable, isolated, but the voice is endearing, assuring. “It will influence the State at a later date."

The other takes slow steps down from his raised platform, paces quiet dusting against the time scorched into the rug. Dark corners contort his lips. “Heh. And yet this lingering Sovereignty has worthwhile cause to hold claims against me." He stops, a mere step from the last, heels smartly touched against one another, his head bowing forward. The pristine, white glove touches to his heart, the smile upon his lips a cruel antithesis to the shadow that deepened the blue in his eyes. “I, hume, who sacked the monarchy; Supreme Commander, Vayne Carudas Solidor." He makes a soft noise, the smile dissipating to air as the corners turn themselves downward, consuming the smile of before. “Indeed, ‘twas the thing wherein one caught the conscience and the King."

A thunderous boom stripped away the pleasantries, rocking the very foundation of stone beneath their shocked feet. It cut off whatever would have been said next, sand and dust creeping from their secret spaces between the new cracks crawling their way up hand laid stone and mortar. The was thick with white snow, sucking from the body breath and moisture, and for a moment, the new Consul’s honey dipped tongue spat out a foul curse.

It was only the recognition of a stunned invader having been catapulted into the private chambers did the Solidor snap to attention, the still, armored guard before him having already moved to approach the mess upon the floor, sputtering in the shock and swarm of heat that threatened to boil flesh if they had been closer.

“A child? He appears to be Dalmascan - I highly doubt is is a soldier - "

The heir, clad in the signs of firebreathing monsters of legend spoke next to the ear of his aide, watching the slightly taller figure clad in black straighten as he did so, “It is quite all right."

His own attention centered solidly on the young fellow wildly looking about at the iron clad guard, the secret keepers elite, and for a brief moment, Vayne felt a hint of pity. It fled in an explosion of colored lights, the lantern-lights about them flickering. “Young man, pray, what did you hear?"

The innocent blues, filled with a sense of life that not a simple talking to would crush, seemed to finally focus, delicate streaks creating feather drop patterns on his still young face. He crumpled back to the floor, clear terror arresting his youthful, foolish face.

Before him, the young man trembled, the slender shoulders, unused to anything other than the thievery of roguish fare, it would seem, his skin darkened by so much time spent in the sun, rosy, dusky, swallowed by the paste white.

The noble waited, the moments ticking by, wasted moments that could be used in some other fashion - his hand waved and he began to turn from the huddled figure upon the floor. “A dog," said the politician, “a wise creature that understands the distance that lies between us."

The trembling, whip crack of a voice rose from desperation behind him. “You -"

The silver and green stopped, the steady pulse at the toned olive neck struggling against the pressure. He calculated it was still to early to loosen it, knowing his neck ached from it.

“You were the one, that bastard Commander!?"

The rumble of the blackened titan was immediate. “Watch your tongue, child."

The defiant screamed at him, beyond him, ignoring the statue as though he had been merely the dust that stung his bruises. “My brother- ! My brother was there, apart of the force that went to save the king!"

The shoulders square themselves. Death. The smells and triumphs, the sorrows of blackened bodies that would never be remembered.

The young man inside the noble remembers the stench of death. It clings to him, his inheritance. His curse, burning its way into his condemned soul.  
His cold gaze returns to find the child startled to see him look upon him, startled to be seen at all from his befitting position upon a floor of fools who claimed to be better than the rest.

His lips part - he could reassure this child, destroy him. Why lie? “I would be correct then in assuming he is dead - sent to a grave befitting his bestial position." You who will not rise up, take your own fate into your own hands - how I hate you for needing me. “Be grateful."


End file.
